


Every Breath We Drew

by The_Winter_Straw



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Angst, F/M, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Sexual Situations, Sexual dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-02-08 01:12:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18622015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Winter_Straw/pseuds/The_Winter_Straw
Summary: People do crazy things, when they're in love.





	Every Breath We Drew

**Author's Note:**

> Second verse, same as the verse. Another fic trade, this one from April of 2017. The prompt was "and when you think of me, am i the best you've ever had?" I really don't know what was going through my head when I decided to write this monstrosity. To date, this is the longest one shot I've ever written. I had to break it into two parts just to post it on dA! It might not be the best thing I've ever written, but it's certainly the most sexual thing I've ever written...not that that's saying much. Normally I headcanon Q as asexual. This time I tried something a bit different. Regardless of its flaws, it was a labor of love, and I'm quite proud of it. (Although that isn't to say I don't realize it has several areas in which it could be improved.)

The dark MI6 car drove to the curb with all the speed of a funeral procession. Through the tinted windows, Q could see the ceiling of cold, steely clouds that had been thronging across the horizon since early yesterday, and very little else. Dawn should have arrived by then, but the rain was so thick that not a single beam of sunlight had a hope of breaking through. _Fitting,_ Q thought, recalling his literature classes at Oxford. He had found himself smack in the middle of a pathetic fallacy. Definitely he _felt_ as pathetic as the weather then—more so, when his driver had to remind him that it was time to leave. 

“Shall I wait here for you, sir?” the suited man inquired as Q pushed open his door. This only invited the rushing noise of heavy rain into the vehicle. Q paused to lick his lips, thinking, then sighed. 

“No,” he said. “This could take considerable time. You may tell M you took me to my destination without incident. I can walk back from here.” 

The incredulous glance at the storm out the windshield was the only protest Q received. “If you’re certain.” 

Whatever orders M had given, whatever reminders Q expected, never came. He looked again at the chilly shower awaiting him, wrapped one hand more securely around his heavy briefcase, and used the other hand to thrust his umbrella outside to unfold inside the torrent. It was with a heavy heart and a mind numbed by nerves thick as the fog outside that Q stepped out of the vehicle. He had hardly reached the walk when the car sped back up the way it had come from, back into London proper, back into civilization. Only Q’s fortuitous step backward saved him being drenched by the wave of water raised by the car’s tires. 

And then Q was alone, standing in the dark and the wet in his best work clothes, his umbrella fluttering uselessly in the gale. He wanted to say some pithy one liner, some clever, bolstering sentence one might hear in a movie. Bond would have. Alas, despite Mother Nature pelting Q with every drop of water on the planet, he found his mouth too dry to speak. Several deep breaths did little to help this problem, but did at the absolute least steady his nerves enough to try. 

“Well,” he said aloud to no one, “let’s get this over with, shall we?” 

Since he had said it to no one, no one answered. Another thunder clap rolled across the sky. With a sigh, Q turned on the spot and made the short walk up the rain-darkened pavement to where a couple of security booths stood, only the one on his right occupied. Thankfully, the cold rain soaking through his clothes made Q’s shaking hands look no more suspicious than a case of shivering. Despite this, the well-dressed guard inside the warm-looking booth did not pick up the ID card Q passed him. 

“We don’t have anyone on the schedule for visitation today,” he said, arms folded across his chest. This was no surprise; Q doubted such a place had visitors scheduled any day. He had expected obstacles and had his answer ready: 

“Official MI6 business. Important. Couldn’t wait for the request to go through proper channels.” 

“Right.” 

“I think you’ll find—” 

“No notification, no entry.” 

Thankfully, the noise of the storm covered that of Q grinding his teeth. He was _cold_ and he was _wet_ and he had _plans_ that necessitated perfect timing. 

“I think you’ll find,” he said again, in a strained voice, “that M himself has forwarded a message clearing my passage. If you would so kindly check your e-mail, I would appreciate it. Unless _you_ would like to explain to the head of British Intelligence why an agent on a crucial mission was turned away at the gate.” 

All this time, Q did not break eye contact. His hand worried the handle of his umbrella, to be sure, but no other sign of nerves escaped him. If this guard thought Q dealt with Bond on a daily basis and couldn’t give as good as he got, he had another think coming. 

Q’s attitude, it seemed, was enough to get the ball rolling. The guard grumbled, but disappeared behind the ludicrously old screen of the station’s computer. The freezing toes inside Q’s shoes tapped off the seconds: one one thousand…two one thousand…three one thousand…four… 

Again arose the sour visage of the guard. “Only _just_ received it. You’re free to go inside.” Q hesitated, he thought for too long. Then the guard picked up Q’s card, slipped it through the reader awkwardly affixed to the rest of the ancient technology, and handed it back to Q. Hopefully the pronounced swallow that accompanied his acceptance of the ID was not so pronounced as to arouse suspicion. One curt nod preceded Q’s leaving at last for the entrance to the building. 

“Next time, tell your _M_ to get access _before_ you show up,” his new friend called after him. Q waved a dismissive hand without turning back. He knew there would not be a next time, perhaps for either of them. 

The silence inside the prison was so great that coming in from the storm almost convinced Q he had gone deaf. It was almost a _feeling_ , like the anger and fear were pressing themselves into his ears. As Q retracted his ruined umbrella— _a nice one, too,_ he thought with some regret—he took careful note of the room he was in. A dark hallway with dim lights hanging from the ceiling led away from the entrance directly in front of him. A dying plant wilted by the grimy window. An ancient soda machine stood buzzing quietly in one corner beside a trio of stuffing-less chairs gathered around a coffee table covered in magazines so old that their names had faded beyond legibility. Who _those_ were for, Q did not know. A front, probably. MI6 was not in the habit of allowing civilians inside the facility. It took an act of a deity to get _agents_ inside—or the skills of one highly-talented quartermaster, as the case may be. 

“I’m here to see her,” he told a second man in a security uniform, this one sitting behind a desk to Q’s left. More arguments were sure to come, Q expected, but the man simply got to his feet without another word. Q stepped out of the way to follow him down that dark hallway with nothing more than a quiet, “ah, my reputation precedes me.” 

The guard did not crack a smile. Gulping, Q adjusted his thumb to press a hidden button on the handle of his briefcase. He only hoped it would still work after its thorough soaking. Only after it would be impossible to fix the problem would he be able to tell if what he needed had happened. He tried to pay attention to his surroundings instead of his worry as he and the guard marched deeper and deeper into the facility. The cells he passed were empty and dirty. Armed guards stood every ten feet down the corridor. Only they indicated that this prison was _holding_ someone. Q didn’t doubt that this was all for show—the lack of care, the filth, the old-as-dirt technology. MI6 would never use a prison like this without good reason to believe that it was absolutely secure. This one was. In fact, it was _so_ secure that Q would not have thought to check this building for leads had Bond not dropped its name in conversation three days prior. It was not on the logs, not on the maps, not on the mind of the common MI6 worker. This was not a ghost town, but a ghost jail. 

With a blink, Q found himself in front of the first hint as to the more secretive nature of the prison. A thick, transparent wall stood before him, a small room beyond them, and another wall beyond that. The guard held a door inside the wall open, glaring impatiently at Q all the while. Q nodded once, and stepped in. A moment later, a line of blue light flashed bright in the dimness, scaling Q from the top of his sodden head to the ends of his ruined shoes. Finally, the guardsman spoke: 

“What’s in your case?” 

“Nothing dangerous. Just everything I need for work when I finish here.” 

“The computer is saying there’s something wrong with the case.” 

Ah, so things _were_ more advanced than at first glance. One would have to get up so early in the morning that it would be the previous day to fool Q on _that_ count. The briefcase was thrust at him with a roll of Q’s eyes. “You can look through it, if you’re so concerned,” he said peevishly. “I know better than to bring anything dangerous within ten feet of this woman. I _was_ briefed, you realize.” 

It took the guard half a minute to flick through Q’s items. Doubtless he didn’t recognize one-tenth of what he saw, but there was always a chance that MI6 hired individuals of above-average intelligence for _this_ base. Q tried not to make it _too_ obvious that he’d been holding his breath when the case and all it held was passed back to him, in rather less organized fashion than Q desired. 

“You have twenty minutes,” said the guard, and he pulled the first door shut behind him. 

“Thank you,” Q said to the man’s retreating back. Two of the armed guards from before shifted into a place on either side of that near-invisible wall. Neither so much as looked at Q to acknowledge his existence. All the better for him; it would be far easier to prove he’d never been here if no one could describe him later on. 

He turned away to come face to face with his unfortunate reflection. A bedraggled muskrat stared back at him, pale underneath a twisted mop of dark, wet hair. Even that was difficult to see through the spots of rain coating the lenses of Q’s glasses. He had taken the time to dress the part of a field agent today, and a fat lot of good it had done him in the end. Might as well have worn his hideous rain boots; then he wouldn’t be out a pair of good shoes on top of everything else. All in all, he looked _exactly_ the way he didn’t want to for this confrontation. It was far too late to back out now, however, and with London’s weather taken into consideration, highly unlikely that he would find a day of sun before the scheduled execution. No, it was now or never, do or die. Find the answer or live forever ignorant. Q took another deep breath, then shoved open the last door between him and his quarry. 

“Fancy seeing you here,” said a familiar voice. 

And there you were, standing at the front of a cell not entirely unlike the one he’d watch them put Silva in not so long ago—before Q had bungled things and set him free, of course. This time, he intended to bungle absolutely nothing. 

“Fancy seeing me at all,” Q answered coldly. You smiled. 

“Let me guess. You want to know why.” 

******

A little over year before this rainy scene, Q had been sitting in MI6’s front room. Warm sun beamed through the open windows, so hot that Q was sweating. He had been called up for a meeting with M over fifty minutes ago, and since then not one further scrap of information had been thrown his way. Even Miss Moneypenny was unusually tight-lipped that morning. Had she so much as bothered to greet him? No. A finger to her lips and a gesture towards M’s closed office door was all Q got. Then silence for fifty minutes, save for the maddening steady beat of the nearby grandfather clock. 

All Q could think of was the work surely piling up for him back at his desk. Three 00s needed prepped for missions that very week, ten items needed repaired after a few field agents “tested” them for Q, and five blueprints for various assignments needed drawn up before the rapidly approaching next quarter—and those were only the first to come to mind! If M had not needed Q _urgently_ , he ought to have said. Q might have risked interrupting Miss Moneypenny’s work to inquire as to how much longer he’d be waiting, had the door to the office not clicked open as soon as the thought crossed his mind. 

“Well, I think that about covers it,” came M’s voice as Q looked up. “It’s good to have you back with us, Miss [L Name].” 

“It’s good to _be_ back, sir. I’m quite eager to get back to work after that little vacation,” said the woman in M’s company. Then you turned. Any and all thoughts of work and meetings and agents touching things they shouldn’t left Q’s mind entirely. He was not oblivious to beautiful women, far from it. That he worked in the company of several of Britain’s most gorgeous he was well aware of. But his time and his career mattered far more than women who would not spare him a second look—most of the time, anyway. When he caught sight of you, for some reason Q couldn’t look away. 

“Are we all good to go then?” 

Q turned to the other side of the room, this time to find Bond slipping inside. Had Q not seen the man himself, however, his appearance would soon have been announced. As soon as Q set eyes on him, so did you. 

“James!” you said, and in the time it took Q to blink, you had run to Bond to be lifted into the air. 

“Did you pass?” Bond asked. 

“With flying colors,” M answered for you. This was necessary, as you were far too busy staring into Bond’s icy eyes to form your own response. “Now, if you both wouldn’t mind cutting that out. I’ve read the previous M’s files on you. I expect much more professional behavior. 

Bond slowly let you back to the floor. “Only the most professional, sir.” 

“I doubt it. Run along.” 

You and Bond left the room without further comment or even seeming to notice at all that Q was sitting there with a stack of papers nearly as tall as he was. Startled by what he had just experienced, Q didn’t move until M cleared his throat and called him back to reality. Q was surprised to find that he had been staring at the point you had exited from the entire time. 

“You’re here for our meeting, correct? Sorry to keep you waiting.” said M, motioning for Q to follow him into his office. 

“Not at all, sir,” Q said vaguely. His eyes wandered back to the door again. This could be bad, _very_ bad. Then again, you had not _seen_ him, and there was nothing saying that Q would ever have to see you again. He turned, determined to focus on the now and not some strange, beautiful woman he’d never met. Unfortunately, as Q did this, he caught the knowing look on Miss Moneypenny’s face. How little Q knew then how much she really understood. 

******

Q took a step closer to the wall of the cell. The woman inside looked a far cry from her once vivacious self. Your hair was greasy, your eyes red, and, Q noted, jumpsuit orange was really no one’s best color. Still, you continued to smile as he set his briefcase down on a nearby table. 

“An answer might be nice, yes,” he said, working to keep his voice casual. 

“Why I agreed to kill you?” you asked. “Or why I never did?” 

He opened the case to lift a device of his own making out. Two clicks of a button later, Q approached your containment unit to run the device slowly up your body. 

“Either. Both.” 

“It’s a long story.” 

“You have eighteen minutes. Best to speed things up.” 

******

If M had only wanted to see Q to discuss the new 00 assigned to him, M might as well have just allowed Q to join your meeting. Now Q had an enormous stack of old MI6 files to read in forty-eight hours _and_ a whole host of instruments to put together in that same time—this all on top of the already pressing work he needed to finish this week. To be frank, though, this was not what bothered Q the most. No, what bothered him the most was that his new charge was likely to know him only as the idiot staring at her like a moron before they were even introduced. Just what Q needed: another field agent making fun of him. 

After an hour holed up with M in his office, Q returned briskly to his desk. The enormous personal file on one 002—name [F Name] [L Name]—he tossed unceremoniously next to his teacup with the intention of perusing the information while he finished other tasks. Then he ducked briefly beneath the surface of the desk to pull out several tools. During this second or two that he wasn’t looking, another person entered the room and appeared so suddenly that Q almost dropped his instruments when he stood and spotted him. 

“What are _you_ doing here?” Q demanded of Bond, perhaps more peevishly than necessary. As per the norm, Q’s attitude only amused Bond. 

“Settle down,” he said. “I only thought you might want to meet your new charge.” 

“My new—” Q began, but as he looked to Bond’s left, he saw you standing right beside him. That Bond had his arm around your waist was impossible to miss, however hard Q tried. Fortunately, you came to his rescue by holding out your hand. 

“[F Name] [L Name],” you said, with yet another smile as Q hesitantly shook that hand. “002. Bond here was just telling me what an excellent quartermaster you are. Best we’ve had since the late 1900s, I believe.” 

“Really.” Q cut his eyes toward the agent in question. 

“Nothing quite so nice as that, I assure you,” said Bond. 

“Good. I’d hate to have to adjust our working relationship.” 

To his great surprise, you giggled. The sound must have shocked Bond as well, since he _and_ Q wound up staring at you. Pink dusted your cheeks; you coughed and ran fingers through your hair. 

“Sorry.” Then, with a toss of your head, you turned quite suddenly professional. “It sounds as though you’ll be able to get me ready for the mission on Thursday. I apologize for the late notice, but I was out of the country until recently.” 

“Yes, M mentioned that,” said Q. Was it his imagination, or did your professionalism flicker out at that? It must have been the former, for you smiled once more when he went on to add, “You can come pick up everything you need along with your ticket right before you leave.” 

“You’re right, James. He _is_ good.” 

“[Name].” 

“Only kidding.” With that, you grabbed Bond’s hand. “I’ll see you soon, Q. In the meantime, James, _you_ owe me two years’ worth of sparring sessions.” 

As Q watched you leave the room, he heard Bond say, “as if you need them. They kept you quite fit in Russia.” 

Just before you vanished, Bond whispered something in your ear that caused you to glance at Q and chuckle. Q felt himself blush as he returned to his work. He was being foolish. Clearly, you were mad about Bond. A girl interested in a man like that wouldn’t look twice at a man like Q. 

******

“What are you doing?” you asked, when Q’s device did not seem to have any immediate readings to give him. You pressed your palms to the glass to get a better look at what he was doing, apparently earning yourself an electric shock in the process. You staggered back, but otherwise pretended nothing had happened. Following your lead, Q didn’t even look up from his work. “That’s not giving you my vitals.” 

“No,” Q agreed. “It’s adding some.” 

“But why—” 

“Your story, [Name],” he said impatiently. “I have a false audio loop going, but it won’t last long. If you don’t want them to hear the whole sordid tale, I suggest you get going.” 

“But you already know the answer,” you said. 

Finally, Q looked up to meet your eyes. “Perhaps I’d rather hear it from you.” 

******

Q was no stranger to working late nights at HQ, all alone among the empty desks and the gentle hum of the heater somewhere deep within the building. The silence, the stillness, the occasional flashlight burst from a passing security guard all combined into the perfect environment for last minute brainstorms. Yes, he had his own setup at home, and doubtless his cats wondered where he had got to, but Mr. Muffins and Tomás had enough food and water that they could last until the following afternoon. Until then, Q was content to tinker at the same place he’d been all day, even if he ought to have been well past the tinkering stage. 

A hoarse curse slipped out Q’s lips as his exhaustion-clumsy fingers dropped his work and scattered wires and slivers of metal across his station. Rubbing his itching eyes, Q wondered if he really ought to call it quits for the day, before he broke something important. This train of thought lasted only as long as it took him to set his eyes on the massive pile of assignments before him. He had never been so far behind in his life. If Q hadn’t had to read six years’ worth of data on a certain prodigal 00 agent, he probably wouldn’t have still been at work that night. 

His deep breath before diving in once again was interrupted by all the overhead lights on his floor turning on at once. Blinded, Q squinted in a vain search for the offending security personnel, and saw no such person when at last he could see. There _was_ someone there, though—you, approaching from the hallway with the smile Q was learning was something of your hallmark. 

“Good morning,” you chirped when you arrived at Q’s desk. 

“Morning?” Q repeated stupidly. He looked at the clock hanging on the wall that had until recently been too shadowed to read. 3:00 already? “What are you doing here?” 

“Couldn’t sleep. Bond mentioned you pull all-nighters the other day. Thought you might could use some company.” 

“Pre-mission jitters?” Q might have smiled understandingly, had he not again spotted his mountain of paperwork. “Unfortunately, I don’t pull all-nighters for nothing. I’m afraid I wouldn’t be very good company for you.” 

“I can be inconspicuous. You won’t even know I’m here. Coffee machine is this way, right?” 

Though he hadn’t taken his eyes off of you, the answer Q made was very vague. You must have understood him, however, because you chuckled and sauntered off without further question. He found it very difficult to not watch your shapely rear exit the room, even _with_ all he knew needed to be done. After much effort, he managed, and for the better, too. What if you caught him staring? That was the _last_ thing Q needed: Bond finding out that _he_ was lusting after Bond’s girlfriend. Heaven forbid. 

How long he worked there in silence, Q hardly knew. Time had a funny habit of distorting when he was fully engrossed, and Q had a feeling he was nearing a breakthrough. Just a few more minutes and then on to the next project… 

“You’re cute when your concentrating.” 

This sudden statement startled Q so much that he dropped his chip for a second time. This earned you something of a dirty look, which admittedly was more to cover up Q’s embarrassment over the compliment than anything else. 

“I _thought_ you said I wouldn’t even know you were here,” he said. You grinned wickedly in reply. 

“I’m a little out of practice, you know. Anyway, I thought you _might_ like your coffee before it gets cold.” 

One of Q’s favorite mugs was held out toward him. He shook his head. “Never touch the stuff. I’ll stick to my cold earl grey, thank you.” 

“Ah, so you’re a tea man.” Shrugging, you set the cup aside on an occupied table and shuffled closer to Q’s chair. 

Funny that, now Q thought about it, he never did see that mug again. 

******

Your tired eyes followed Q around the little room that housed your cell as gadget after gadget was pulled out of Q’s briefcase, ran for a handful of seconds, and then promptly returned without explanation. Again, you crept forward, those same eyes shining even as you stayed carefully away from the boundaries of your confines. 

“There’s nothing else to say, Q,” you whispered. “Nothing that you don’t already know. I told you everything before they brought me here. Everything.” 

“You’ll forgive me if I can’t bring myself to believe a woman who spent a _year_ planning to murder me.” 

“It wasn’t that long.” 

His eyebrow rose. 

“It wasn’t!” you protested, but when you went on, your voice grew hushed. “You have to believe me. Please.” 

“Twelve minutes remaining, 002. You’re running out of time.” 

******

Normally, Q didn’t spare much thought in regards to the fate of his field agents once they left his room. They had their own missions abroad, he had his there in London. Bond was a special case, given his propensity for mucking things up right out of the gate, but even _he_ Q trusted would return in due course. Not so with you. No sooner had Q realized that your plane would have landed in Bolivia by then than did his mind begin to pelt him with enough questions to drive him to distraction. Would you make it through the assignment? Would Q’s tools be enough to help? Who would you have to seduce to achieve your ends? 

It wasn’t like Q to give into his hormones, especially not at the expense of his career. What it was about you in particular that made him behave in such a maddening manner was beyond him. Two weeks after you left, the day of your return arrived, and Q was just as much in a state as he had been when you left. Something had to give, and that something was his utterly nonsensical crush. Such feelings were pointless to the nth degree; you and Bond were an item. Your records made plain that this had almost always been the case, and so much the better for Q’s job and the lives of those he looked after. He had only just made up his mind to put on his most professional manner when there was a soft knock on the wall just outside Q’s door. 

“Ah,” he said as his fingers continued to rattle off lines of code. “002. I was wondering when you’d be by to return my things.” 

There was no answer. Q all but froze, his eyes glued to his computer screen. It wasn’t you, was it? It was Bond, come for a laugh. Against his better judgment, Q chose to look over at the door. As soon as he did, all his grand plans for a distant, civil relationship went out the window. You _were_ there after all, but looking entirely unlike the you Q had grown accustomed to seeing. He frowned and turned to get a better look. 

“002? Are you quite all right?” 

You seemed to struggle for a moment before plastering your usual smile in place. “I’m fine,” you said, walking into the room. Then you took in an enormous breath and spun toward him. “But I’m afraid I broke the lovely x-ray glasses you gave me. Completely shattered during a chase in Oruro.” 

On closer inspection, Q realized how very ill you looked. You had dressed the part of an agent coming in after an extended period overseas, but beneath all that, your skin was pale, and there were shadows underneath your eyes the size of dinner plates. He decided there and then to do something that he would never do for anyone else: let you get away with ruining his tech. 

“That’s all right. They were simply a holdover from Agent Carter’s last trip. I didn’t have time to make anything from scratch for you this time. If I decide you need x-ray glasses in the future, I’ll be sure to make yours more durable.” 

“Thank you, Q,” you said, but still the signs off illness and stress did not melt away. 

“002, are you absolutely certain you’re feeling well?” 

“Fine! I’m just fine. Really. There’s no reason to worry.” 

He considered you another moment longer before stepping back to his desk. Believe you he might not have, but after all, he had only known you for a few days. It was none of his business if you weren’t feeling well. His role in MI6 was to keep the computers and the agents up and running, technologically speaking. Nowhere in his job description did it list guilting agents into visiting their doctors. 

“What about the other items?” he asked as he resumed typing. “You don’t appear to have those either. Can I assume they are no longer in one piece as well?” 

“No, they’re fine. I just need to show them to M during our debriefing. I’m sure he’ll return them to you when everyone’s checked that my story is straight.” 

His eyes darted toward you and away once more. “Meaning in another three months, I suppose.” 

“I suppose.” 

Since that was all—and since Q was supposed to be making it plain that he was nothing but your coworker—he said nothing more. His workload had not _decreased_ during your time away. He typed on, but found his gaze continually drawn to your figure as you slowly made your way around the room. Why on earth were you hanging out in there? 00 agents didn’t necessarily have more free time than other MI6 workers did. 

“Can I help you with something?” he asked, after about ten minutes had passed in such a manner. You spun toward him so quickly that Q half-suspected that you’d forgotten he was there at all. 

“No!” You hitched a grin back on, but it didn’t last. Almost as quickly as it appeared, it crumbled away. There was no time for Q to inquire about your mental health again. “I-I just don’t know if I’m cut out for the spy business anymore. That’s all.” 

All at once, Q felt quite out of his element. This did not happen often when he was in his own room. He stepped awkwardly away from the computer and toward you, but did not have the courage to pat your shoulder. “Did…something go wrong during your assignment?” 

“It was a mess. Everything was a mess. Nothing went right. I don’t know what I was thinking, taking something on so soon after I came back.” 

“Did you succeed in what you were told to do?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then why—” 

“Better!” you burst out. “I have to do better! Success is one thing, but an agent can still fail if they succeed _wrong_! I don’t want M to…to _hurt_ me…” 

The last words came out along with the tiniest of sobs. Q’s expression softened. Given his position in MI6, he hadn’t been given all of the details, but there had been enough provided in the files that Q knew your two-year stint in Russia hadn’t been exactly a paid holiday. You would be embarrassed to hear that, though, he was sure of it, so Q tried a different tactic: 

“[Name], perhaps you had better go talk to one of the counselors. If one mission shook you up this badly, they might be able to find you more acceptable assignments until you’re ready for bigger ones again.” 

“No.” The tears in your eyes vanished with a wipe of your sleeve. You inhaled, then went on quite normally, “The longer they make me relive it, the longer I have to go on with all that in my head. I want to forget. I want new memories. I can’t move on if I’m sitting around taking psychology exams day in and day out.” 

His fingers flexed as though Q really was considering trying to physically comfort you. He did no such thing. Comfort was not his place, nor was insisting you go talk to a professional. All Q had the right to do was nod and try to get back to work—but he didn’t get far before you spoke again. 

“Q?” 

“Yes?” 

“There is _one_ thing you can do for me.” 

“What’s that?” 

You smiled shyly at him. “My debriefing isn’t for another hour. I don’t want to see anyone before then. Can I stay in here with you?” 

His space, his quiet, his kingdom of sorts was at risk. Just now, though, that wasn’t an issue. What could Q say but, “Of course”? 

******

How much longer did Q dare keep this going? When he had his own assignments, he knew how to time things perfectly, how to press button exactly when it needed pressed, how to turn out the power in some distant country when it was most needed. Now he was out on his own. No direction. No instruction. No going back. 

“Were you ever going to tell me?” he asked with his back turned. 

“Why would I tell you?” 

“Because you said you loved me.” 

“Why would you tell the man you loved that the only reason you were released from a KGB prison is because the Russian secret service wanted him dead?” 

“It would put the man on guard, for one.” 

“And it would make him doubt my love, for another.” When Q continued to refuse to look at you, you sighed wistfully. “See? You already think I’m faking. You’re wrong. They’re all wrong. I’m sorry you got wrapped up in this.” 

“ _Are_ you?” 

******

Much as he often wished that he could, Q could not work forever. After forty-eight hours on the clock, M could no longer turn a blind eye to Q’s constant presence. Whether it was an issue with the pay or an issue with Bond finding Q asleep at the water cooler, Q did not know. All he _did_ know was that it was now 3:30 in the afternoon on a Thursday, and he was at home bored out of his mind. The gentle purr of the gray and white cat on his chest and the near-muted advertisement for the next episode of _Doctor Who_ playing on the television were not enough to take his mind off important issues back at MI6. 

It wasn’t just his actual work he was thinking about either. It was you. Far from the friendly (if querulous) working relationship he had formed with Bond, he seemed to have fallen into actual _friendship_ with you. After your debriefing, you had returned to Q’s office, and there you kept returning. If Q was being honest with himself, he knew that was in part why he had stayed so long without going home. That wasn’t _right_ —and yet it was far preferable to his present situation. 

As if someone had read that thought and chose to do something about it, the buzzer to Q’s flat rang. Tomás, never fond of strangers, hissed, sank his claws through Q’s shirt, and scuttled off into the safety of the bedroom. 

“Thank you for that. I really needed _another_ shirt full of holes,” Q called after the cat. Wincing slightly, he stood up and headed for the door. He hadn’t the foggiest idea of who it might be. Very few people outside of work spoke to him. No packages were expected either. 

On the whole, what waited for Q was a greater (and more pleasant) surprise than he had hoped for. As he pulled open the door, he saw this visitor was you. You brightened when you spotted his curious face. 

“Hey,” you said, affecting a manner as casual as your off-duty clothes. He had to shake his head to clear it of all thoughts of how you seemed capable of pulling of just about any fashion you chose. 

“002. What are you doing here? How did you find my house?” 

You didn’t have time to answer. A flurry of movement sounded from within the house, so rapidly closing in that you both looked toward the source of the noise. A massive, fluffy, brindled cat sprinted for the open door. Only Q’s quick reaction allowed him to catch the cat as it made a break for it. 

“Mr. Muffins, no!” he scolded, stumbling back inside with his arms full of squirming animal. “You are _not_ an outdoor cat. Bad boy!” 

The sound of stifled laughter reminded Q that he had company. Flustered, Q looked over just in time to see you doing your best to hide your amusement. You didn’t manage. More laughing broke through as you asked: 

“Mr. Muffins?” 

“He’s adopted,” Q said defensively. “And normally isn’t so poorly behaved. Why don’t you come inside and explain what you’re doing here so I can put him down? I don’t want him trying to get out again.” 

You walked in, and, without waiting to be asked, closed the door behind you. For several minutes, however, you did not bother answering Q’s questions. Instead you simply allowed your eyes to rove around his modern (and rather sparsely decorated) living space. All the while, Mr. Muffins continued to struggle in Q’s grip, something he normally didn’t have to do to get his way when Q wasn’t otherwise distracted by wondering how such an attractive woman might view his spotless kitchen. 

That did not seem to be on your mind, though. When you did speak, it was to tell him, “First off, I’m off the clock. It’s [Name], not 002. Okay?” 

“O…kay?” 

“Secondly, _how_ I found this place should be obvious. I got the information from James.” 

“Of course you did. And may I inquire as to how _he_ knows where I live?” 

“You’re not the only that knows your way around encrypted information, sweetheart,” you said cheekily. “Give us 00s _some_ credit.” 

“I’d rather—ow!” Just then, Mr. Muffins bit Q square on the wrist. More surprised than really hurt, Q dropped the cat. He might have felt bad, had Mr. Muffins not simply trotted straight over to you and began to weave himself between your legs. “I’m sorry. Normally he doesn’t like to meet new people.” 

“Nothing to be sorry for.” 

To Q’s astonishment, you knelt to start stroking Mr. Muffins all the way down his furry back. The world had gone mad that day, including his own cats. That turned out to be just the tip of the crazy iceberg, though, because you continued to talk while your hands were otherwise occupied. 

“Anyway, the only reason I came by was because I was wondering if you’d like to go to dinner with me.” 

This was such an odd question that Q couldn’t answer straight away. In fact, when he _did_ respond, it was not with an answer at all, but with a question of his own: 

“What?” 

Much to Mr. Muffins’ disappointment, you straightened to grin at Q. “Is that so surprising?” 

“Well—that is to say—I mean—it all depends on the nature of your request.” Oh, sure. _That_ didn’t give him away at all, and neither did his apparent blush. You had the grace to take this in stride. 

“I’m asking you on a date, Q.” 

His reaction this time was not much better. “Why me?” 

“Well,” you rolled your eyes toward the ceiling as though such a question actually required critical thinking, “it’s pretty obvious that you’re attracted to me. I think you’re cute. If we both like each other, why not?” An embarrassed pause on both sides followed this pronouncement, broken only when you said, “Was that too strong?” 

Of course, it _would_ end up Q’s responsibility to go forward with this. He shook his head. “Just strong enough.” 

Your expression made it clear you were relieved. “But I have to warn you: I’m out of practice.” 

Through the butterflies flooding his stomach, Q thought he might have felt _excitement_ prickling through his digestive system. “That won’t be a problem. I’m out of practice myself.” 

“Excellent. Let’s get going, shall we? I don’t know about you, but I’m _famished_.” 

******

He could feel the seconds ticking down like a line of ants marching down his spine. The pressure was on, but Q could not react. He must not react. Someone, somewhere was watching him, and they needed to see what they expected to see: a cool headed agent questioning a woman who had, thus far, refused to say anything to anyone else. 

“I take it you’re not going to use this time to give me any information?” he asked. You could only offer him a hollow echo of your old smile. Q wondered if he’d ever seen the real one, or if Russia had taken that from you, too. 

“What do you want me to say, Q?” 

“This isn’t about what _I_ want.” 

“Whatever you want me to say, I’ll say it. Do they think you’ve turned traitor, too? I’ll tell M you aren’t. I’ll tell M I never got a scrap of information out of you.” 

"I don’t want any more lies, [Name].” 

“Nothing I ever told _you_ was a lie.” 

******

“Are you sure you’re that out of practice?” Q asked in the middle of dinner. He was not entirely unused to dating, but he had to confess that he normally never knew what to do with a woman once he’d got her out. Maybe his problem was the venues he chose. Desperate to keep his true self hidden at first, he normally leaned toward smaller, quieter restaurants that hid out in shopping malls. The place you selected was a far cry from anything like that. His upbringing had taught Q what to do with each and every fork laid out before him, but he normally avoided anyplace that offered him more than two to begin with. 

“Out of practice,” you said lightly, and you cracked open an oyster, "but not incapable of using Google. _That_ was still around before I left.” 

Pointing out that such a place doubtless would be a drain on both your pocketbooks would be indelicate to say. So instead, Q said, “Oh. I was under the impression that this used to be a haunt of yours and Bond’s.” Something else entirely too indelicate to mention he realized just a little too late. 

But you only laughed and crammed some bread into your mouth. Q had never seen anyone eat with so much gusto. In fact, some of the servers at this clearly five star restaurant seemed to think that _your_ manners were far worse than anything rude Q might accidentally say. A few of the nearby patrons kept throwing you looks in between their courses as well, but you plowed on, oblivious. 

“It has good ratings, so I wanted to try. Then again, once you’ve spent eight months wondering _if_ you’ll get food that day, you get a little less picky about what you’ll put in your mouth, so long as there's enough of it.” 

“Ah.” 

“Sorry. I guess I should have asked before I dragged you here. It’s my treat. I promise.” 

“That really wasn’t what I was worried about,” Q said. Well, he _was_ , but he wasn’t so insensitive as to ask you to treat him, especially since your desire for food seemed to stem from two years of imprisonment. How was anyone supposed to let you down after _that_? 

“You don’t have to feel sorry for me. I just really, _really_ like food.” 

“I can tell.” Too late, he realized that might have been more obviously rude than his jab about Bond. Time to change the subject, and Bond was just as good a subject as any at this point. Q might have found his own bungling of the Silva matter more pleasant than imagining what a foreign agency had done to you for all that time. “But are you absolutely sure you never came here with Bond?” 

“This place only opened up a year ago, so, yes, I’m sure.” After a particularly large bite of salad, you picked up your glass of water and downed the entire thing. “If you keep asking me about Bond, I’m going to start thinking you’re jealous.” 

Q? Jealous? Of Bond? What did Bond have that Q didn’t, except for a license to kill, a liking for dry martinis, and the perfect physique? Why was Q bothering with this line of thought when you’d gone back to your meal? “Well, I mean,” Q said hesitantly, “you two _are_ very cozy.” 

“Mm.” 

“Your old files seem to indicate that you two were…together.” 

“Sounds about right.” 

“I just mean…I don’t mean to get in between you. Even if Bond and I _do_ fight, I wouldn’t want to ruin your relationship with him.” 

You rolled your eyes and reached for the breadbasket. “I asked _you_ out, Q.” 

“I know, I just want to make sure that I hadn’t give you the wrong idea.” 

“About what?” you asked with something akin to glare. 

“You were together for a very long time,” Q said, cursing himself inwardly for ruining a good thing before that good thing even began. 

“And now we’re _not_ ,” you said, a little more forcibly than usual. 

“Could you tell me _why_?” 

“For God’s sake, you sound like my counselor.” With a huff, you threw yourself back into your chair. “I was gone for a long time. James is different. _I’m_ different. He’ll always be very dear to me as a friend, but after so long in the company of killers, I find myself more interest in a man whose job it is to _prevent_ people dying.” 

And again, Q found himself speechless. He did not have a license to kill, that much was true. However, he _did_ aid those who did, and with hardly a qualm to keep him up in the middle of the night (more often lately, that was some rather inappropriate mental images of you). Did that truly mean that Q _wasn’t_ a murderer? 

It didn’t matter in that moment. There were often times later that Q wished it had. Instead, he threw caution to the wind. Here you were, stating that you preferred him to Bond, that you were more interested in _Q_. For once, he chose _not_ to argue. 

******

“Did they tell you?” you asked when Q had nothing to say. “Did they give you my message?” 

“No one’s told me anything, actually. They seem to think that you and I might have been in cahoots.” 

“A nice idea. Maybe then they wouldn’t have put out a kill order.” 

_Now_ you sounded like the two of you were only having a pleasant chat over tea. Were you afraid? Were you angry? Were you disheartened? Q had thought he knew you well enough to tell. Maybe Bond was right, though. Maybe Q had never known the real you at all. By your own admission—by the proof staring him in the face right then and there—you were not the same person who had disappeared during a mission in Siberia all those years ago. 

“I can’t see why they did anyway,” he said, before busying himself again with his task. “I’m only a quartermaster.” 

"You’re the best quartermaster MI6 has ever had.” 

******

Months blurred together: work and dates, exhilaration and fatigue, the longest bout of happiness that Q had ever known. The spring of your arrival melted into a summer packed with more feeling than he knew what to do with. You remained busy. So did he. Somehow, the two of you managed to make it work—until one cool, sunny September day where an emergency vet trip for Mr. Muffins caused Q to not only miss a scheduled breakfast date, but also to arrive late for work. 

The solution Q settled on was simple enough. He had permission to be late, considering the state of his poor cat, and a few extra minutes would hardly put a dent in all the overtime Q had already put in. A quick stop at your favorite café to load up on enough food to feed a small army wouldn’t take too long, and would mean that Q could both makeup for his skipping out that morning _and_ slip into work after everyone was otherwise distracted by their jobs. As soon as Q set foot inside the building, his plans crumbled into dust. 

“Good morning, Q,” Miss Moneypenny said from over at her desk. Q opened his mouth to reply, only to fall silent when he spotted who else was with her. Bond sat at a chair pulled up at one end of the desk, and two near-empty cups of cold coffee drags rested atop a handful of napkins covered in crumbs. Evidently Q had not been the _only_ one with a breakfast date that morning. 

“Miss Moneypenny,” was all he said once he’d recovered, and then only just before attempting to move on. “Attempting” was the key word here, for Bond stopped him before Q got very far: 

“We were just talking about you.” 

“What about me?” Q asked as he came to a halt. Both Bond and Miss Moneypenny exchanged looks that he liked not at all. Miss Moneypenny, however, recovered enough to smile. 

“We wanted to congratulate you,” she said. 

“On _what_?” 

“Your relationship with 002, obviously. She’s a good catch. You’re very lucky.” 

All of Q’s worst suspicions were confirmed. He didn’t dare look at Bond. A few times after that first date Q had considered _asking_ Bond, if not for permission to date you, at least for an acknowledgement that the breakup between you both was real. More and more time had passed, and Q had just never got around to doing so. Perhaps he’d hoped being discrete would mean no one at work would ever find out. Given that Q worked at a spy agency, perhaps such a thought was not showing his usual amount of foresight. 

“How do you know about that?” Q kept his eyes glued to Miss Moneypenny. He did not want to see what Bond thought about this whole affair, and if he had anything to say about it, he wouldn’t. 

“It’s so obvious,” she answered. “The way she looks at you. The way you look at her. You’re in love, Q.” 

“Looks like you’ve finally hit puberty. Praise the Lord—or something to that effect,” said Bond, smirking. Q shot him a withering look that phased him not at all. Quite the opposite. Bond got out of his seat and removed several of Q’s bags from his arms before heading for the hall. “These are for [Name], correct? I’ll help you carry them.” 

Protesting wasn’t worth the effort. Miss Moneypenny waved goodbye before Q trudged after Bond with dread growing in the pit of his stomach. This was _not_ going to be an enjoyable conversation. 

Funnily enough, the conversation never really came. Bond said nothing for quite some time. In fact, he continued on his way as though he had forgotten that Q was walking along behind him. That might have been worse than the talk Q had so long avoided. By the time Bond did decide to bring the subject up, Q’s heart felt fit to burst. 

“So,” said Bond, “you and [Name].” 

This was not at all the way Q had imagined this starting. “Me and [Name],” he repeated, uncertain. 

“How long has that been going on?” 

“About five months.” 

Bond whistled. Some color leaked into Q’s cheeks. 

“She said you two weren’t dating anymore.” 

“We’re not.” 

“I did plan to ask you. Eventually.” 

“Ask me what?” Bond stopped in the middle of a mostly vacant hall toward the back of the building. “It’s not _my_ place to decide who she’s with. If you really want to be with her, you have my blessing. Not that you need it.” 

A breath of relief slipped out of Q’s lungs, despite his best efforts to conceal it. “Thank you.” 

That, as far as Q was concerned, was the end of that. Just as he prepared to begin his trek again (he preferred the food get to you warm), Bond asked another question that threw him off entirely: 

“How’s your cat?” 

Q gaped at him. “What does _he_ have to do with anything?” 

Shrugging, Bond shoved his free fist into his jacket pocket. “Nothing. This is the first time he’s been seriously ill?” 

“How do you know anything about him?” 

“[Name] told me.” Of course. Q wondered if you’d mentioned his cat’s name, too. _That_ he’d never hear the end of. “He’s normally healthy? Hasn’t got into anything strange lately?” 

“Strange? What do you mean ‘strange’?” 

“Anything new, anything different. I understand that he doesn’t leave your flat. He hasn’t been introduced to something he isn’t used to having around?” 

“Well, he _did_ try to stow away in 002’s bag yesterday. I think he’d rather live with her than with me.” 

“And she had nothing strange in her bag but a cat?” 

“Of course not!” Unlike Q, you left your work _at_ work. He’d never seen you do a single MI6-related thing the entire time you’d been dating him, and that included bringing anything from the office home. 

“Hm.” 

Bond’s contemplative look did nothing to soothe Q’s nerves. Already worried about his cat, Q didn’t think he could take having to worry about you, too. Did Bond think someone was after you? You certainly didn’t _appear_ as careful as Bond did off duty. Would a simple home security system be enough to protect you? 

“What?” Q asked. “What’s _hm_?” 

A disarming smile on Bond’s face was hardly disarming. “Nothing, Q. I’m just thinking aloud.” 

“But thinking about what? What’s wrong with 002?” 

“Nothing, that I know of. She’s just different since she came back. Spending as little time at work as she can, lusting over young men like you for reasons no one can comprehend…” 

The jab did not escape Q, who pushed his glasses further up his nose and scowled. “It would be better for you take your concerns about her behavior to M, rather than to me.” 

Bond seemed to consider this suggestion for a moment—such a long moment that Q was almost afraid that Bond might actually do so. Then he slapped Q hard enough on the back that Q nearly dropped his several containers of takeout. 

“No, I’m sure she’s fine,” Bond said cheerfully. “Just…keep yourself in one piece, won’t you?” 

“I always try to.” 

“Good.” With that, Bond pushed Q’s remaining bags into Q’s laden arms. “I’ll let you get going. She’s in the back, in the shooting range last I saw.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Don’t mention it. And Q?” 

“Yes?” Q turned with some difficulty to see Bond regarding him with an odd expression once again. 

“I agree with Eve. Congratulations. You’re a lucky man.” 

Having no more to say, Bond turned on his heel to walk back the way he and Q had come from. Q watched him go, more rattled than ever. He almost got the feeling that Bond had only brought him this far to give him a private warning about you. But a warning about what in particular? Later, Q would take comfort in knowing that he wasn’t the only one who had let his feelings blind him to all the signs of having a serpent in MI6’s midst. 

******

“I’m not going to talk,” you told Q, who was now busy making sure his calculations for camera placement based on the blueprints were correct. He had done nothing thus far to make a watcher suspicious. The quartermaster at MI6 could have given the interrogative agent any number of tools to make you squeal. But from this point on, he needed to be careful. 

“I don’t need you to talk,” he answered absently. “That’s not why I’m here.” 

“Why are you here, then?” 

“I’m here because I want to be.” He looked at you, then quickly looked away again. “If you must know, another agent was assigned this task. I, ah, took it over when I heard what they were supposed to do.” 

“And if you didn’t come to listen to me spill KGB secrets, why _did_ you come?” 

“I came here because of you.” 

It pained him to say it, but it was true. 

******

Late nights for both you and Q meant dates thrown together at the last minute. If, after coming home from a ten-day stint in Hyderabad, you found yourself incapable of sleeping on your own, something to fill the time had to be arranged. Normally that was a twenty-four hour pancake house, or watching _Babylon 5_ until you were ready to go home. _This_ night was different. Q didn’t know how; all he did know was that you had insisted on coming _here_ , to his flat, and directed him to close eyes. 

“Why should I close my eyes?” Q had asked, suspicious (naturally, he believed) that he was about to fall prey to some prank. You, one hand on your hip, had only wagged your finger in his direction. 

“It’s a surprise, so close them. I’ll let you know when you can open them again.” 

“As though you’re going to know if I take a peek while you’re out of the room,” he grumbled. Nonetheless, Q closed his eyes and his eyes remained closed for what seemed like ages. Without the use of his vision, Q couldn’t see the clock, but he was pretty sure that he’d been sitting on his couch for _at least_ ten minutes. Was the surprise you crawling out the bathroom window? 

No, there was a smart rap on the wall just above Q’s head. With a start he opened his eyes, and then closed them again very tightly again because what he had just seen could only be a hallucination. His eyelids rose slowly the second time, and to Q’s surprise, he saw that you were still there, still wearing what could only be described as _very_ scanty lingerie. There was less fabric than there was exposed skin, which made catching your wide, catlike grin very difficult indeed. 

“I take it you like it?” 

How was he supposed to answer that when you sat yourself in his lap? Q did so in the only way he could: by stammering as he did his absolute best to look at your eyes, rather than your nicely accentuated breasts. Your grin grew wider. Making yourself quite comfortable there, you reclined back far enough that you could trace your finger across Q’s collar bones. He _continued_ in his speechlessness until, without any sort of request from Q whatsoever, you began pulling off his shirt. 

“Wait!” 

You stopped, though you shot him a curious look. His heart pounded in his ears nearly loud enough to drown out all thought. All he knew was that he really had no idea what was happening—and that you had never seen him shirtless before and he rather thought he’d like to keep it that way. _He_ had seen Bond without a shirt as well; Q had no delusions as to how he measured up in _that_ department. 

When he spoke no further, you sighed and let go. “What’s the matter?” 

“What are we—what are you doing?” Q asked, face burning for a multitude of reasons, none of which he wanted to voice. You let out a soft scoff that _might_ have been a laugh; it was difficult to tell. 

“Giving you your surprise.” When his confusion did not vanish, you rolled your eyes. “I was thinking we could have sex.” 

Thank God he wasn’t drinking his tea right then. Q would have spat it right out. Okay, the lingerie and the lingering in his lap and the touching his chest _should_ have been a major clue, but with you just coming right out saying what you wanted like that was the _last_ thing Q expected. 

“Why would we have sex?” 

This time, your sigh sounded a lot more like a grumble. “Because we’ve been dating for six months and I’m rife with sexual frustration?” 

“Yes, but…” He really didn’t want to say what he felt morally obligated to say. Would Bond say it? Did that matter? Q was not Bond, and apparently you _preferred_ him that way. In the wake of his silence, you crawled off of him to stand up, arms crossed over your mostly exposed bosom. Talk about ruining a good thing before it even got started. 

“What, Q? If you don’t want to have sex, we won’t have sex. I just thought, with the way you look at me sometimes…” 

“It’s not that I don’t _want_ to! I just—don’t want you to feel…obligated…is all.” 

You stared at Q as though you could not believe your ears. His blush crawled further up his neck as realization dawned that, yes, he really had just brought that up when you were already more than willing to get him in bed. He expected the worst then: screaming, a fight, tears over Q bringing up something that by then was supposed to be far, far in the past. 

You did not. Instead, you leaned down and kissed him. 

“I don’t feel obligated. I _love_ you. Even when you’re worried that you’re treating me like a prison keeper. You’re not, okay? And I want you to be the first person I sleep with after all that.” 

“The—first?” 

It didn’t seem possible. Q had been witness to the way you’d jumped into Bond’s arms after your meeting with M. He’d seen how willing you were to be around Bond at work. Far from _blaming_ you for that, Q just couldn’t wrap his head around the truth of you abstaining from so long. In an office full of beautiful people, you hadn’t had sex with a single person for a half year? You confirmed this with a nod. 

Your obvious consent changed things, but did not fully warm Q up to the idea. If you and he were going to this, you had to do it right. There were too many variables to leap without looking, and if Q didn’t get something off his chest now, he would be sure to regret it in the morning. 

“I—This is very unexpected. I’m not prepared. There aren’t any condoms in the house and—” 

You interrupted him with an affectionate ruffling of his hair. “Lucky for you, I’m a planner.” With a look that got Q’s lower half far more excited than it ought to have, you leaned in to add in a whisper, “In fact, I’ve been planning for this so long that I’ve eaten pineapple every day for the last three weeks.” 

His eyebrows shot up at that; his face turned redder than supper’s lobster bisque. “ _Have_ you?” That question hadn’t come out nearly as casual as Q had wanted. But you being you, you only chuckled as you grabbed his hand to pull him off the couch. Stumbling, he followed after you toward the bedroom. 

“Come on, hot shot,” you teased. “I shouldn’t be the only one wandering around here nearly naked.” 

“You didn’t bring _me_ something to change into for the occasion…did you?” 

This question caused you to laugh so hard that you came close to dropping Q’s hand. Still you had to lean against the wall momentarily to gather yourself again before you could continue on your way. “No, but if you’re into that sort of thing, I know just the thing to bring along _next_ time.” 

“Next time?” 

You had arrived at your destination, but Q hardly noticed—not until you shoved him backward onto his bed where he landed with a sort of "uh?!" This noise was nothing compared to the noise _you_ made as you leaned down and slowly trailed your body up his. Your smile when your face reached his was unlike anything Q had ever seen you wear before. He lifted his head to kiss you, and you kissed back methodically, seductively. Just when Q had started to gain enough confidence to kiss more heatedly, you broke away to finally give him a reply: 

“Sweetheart,” you said, “this is only the beginning.” 

Your face disappeared. Q twisted his head to get a better look at what you were doing, but you had already skillfully unbuttoned his slacks and exposed his hardening shaft to the dark bedroom. The sound you made at seeing _that_ made Q very glad to know this was not a one-time deal. 

******

No story spilled from between your once perfectly-painted lips. Instead, a horrible sad sort of mockery of your usual laugh came out. The laughter was broken by snuffles and sobs, and Q found he had no choice but to keep his eyes entirely away, lest he see what you were truly doing: laughing or crying. 

“You’re—you’re here to kill me, aren’t you?” you asked, now unable to keep up your facade of calm. 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” 

“You know the answer to that, too.” 

Hard as it was to do so, Q forced himself to look up from what he was doing and into your face. Despite the disturbing noises you’d been making only seconds before, there was no trace of tears on your skin. They sparkled in your eyes, but you stood up straight, almost defying him to question you about that on top of everything else. His stomach churned, but he looked you dead in the eye as he replied: 

“I am not in the habit of giving double agents what they want.” 

******

Sharing a flat with another human being for the first time could be described as nothing other than an _experience_ for Q. Pads and tampons in the bathroom? Weird food items and health crazes filling up the kitchen cabinets? Fights over what to set the temperature to or who used the bathroom for too long in the mornings? All these Q took in stride. The thing he found the most difficult to handle was sharing a bed. This was not because you snored, or because you were too warm, or because you stole the blankets. You did none of this. What you _did_ do was— 

“No! No! I don’t—you can’t!” 

—scream in your sleep. 

For the third night in a row that week, Q roused himself from a deep slumber to sit up and turn on the lamp closest to him. His glasses lay nearby, and these Q quickly put on to see what he was doing. Thankfully there was no mirror in the bedroom; he already knew he looked a mess: dark circles, messed up hair. Did anyone look good when they ran on two hours of sleep a night for most of a week? It didn’t matter. He couldn’t contemplate the comments he’d get at work come morning when his girlfriend was thrashing and sobbing beside him. Just as some nights you slept without nightmares and some you didn’t, sometimes the light coming on helped and sometimes it didn’t. This night was, obviously, one that it did not. 

“[Name]” Q croaked. This had no discernible effect. You neither stilled nor quieted, but continued to make the most heartbreaking of disturbed murmurs as you tossed from side to side. Truly, Q wished he could make the nightmares stop, but at that moment, his desire to get some sleep eclipsed his inclination towards pity. “[Name],” he said, more loudly, as he reached over to grasp your shoulder. 

You awoke with a shout, frozen in place, your wide eyes flickering wildly across Q’s features. His muscles relaxed—too soon, as it turned out. As soon as his eyelids fluttered, you launched yourself out of the bed. Q had to scramble after you to grab your arm again. 

“Let me go!” you shouted. Panicked, you couldn’t seem to get yourself free of Q’s typically noodle-like grasp. 

“[Name], it’s _me_!” 

“I don’t care who you are! You can’t keep me here!” 

“I’m not trying to keep you here!” Q said, but too late. You had aimed a punch for him and even in your current state, your reflexes were faster than his. “Shit!” 

He dropped your arm without further prompting so that he could attend to what was sure to be a beautiful bruise blossoming across his cheekbone. If you were _that_ adverse to staying in bed, he couldn’t _stop_ you from leaving. All the same, Q thought, he probably ought to call someone. Your psychiatrist would want to know about an episode like this. First, though, he would have to find where you’d run off to. Only you hadn’t run off. 

“Oh my God.” 

He flinched away from a flurry of movement, but it was only you, gently pulling his palm from his face to get a better look at his injury. It probably looked worse than it was, due to Q flushing slightly as he realized what a stupid idea it had been to try to hold down a 00 agent. Your eyes filled with tears. No sooner had he noticed this, however, than did you throw your arms around him and begin to cry into Q’s neck. 

“I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s…fine,” he said in a strangled sort of voice. Yes, it _hurt_ , and there would be awkward questions to avoid at the office come morning, but all in all, Q knew you hadn’t really _meant_ to strike him. 

“No, it’s not. I hit you. I’m a—” 

“Don’t say it.” 

“But I _am_! I should never have moved in. I’m only hurting you.” 

“You’re not. I like having you here. [Name], look at me.” A few more sobs were pressed to his skin before, shaking slightly, you pulled away to stare into his face. “You were having a nightmare. You got disoriented. I shouldn’t have grabbed you like that.” 

Another pronounced sniffle punctuated the otherwise quiet flat as you rubbed your eyes. “What _else_ are you supposed to do? Let me go running into the street? What if I hurt someone out there? M would fire me for sure.” 

“No, he wouldn’t. He’d make you go back for more evaluations before he let you out again.” 

“Even worse.” Despite the sardonic tone to the statement, you appeared to be calming down. In and out you breathed, in and out, in and out. Q breathed with you out of habit. Finally, you sat away from him completely. “I’m still sorry I did that.” 

“I’m not saying that I want more of it. Just that I forgive you.” Q shuffled to end of the bed to sit next to you; you leaned your head against his shoulder. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

He knew the answer was no before you said anything. Therefore, when you _didn’t_ say no, he was a little surprised, and a little afraid. As smart as Q was, he knew his expertise did not lay in the realm of handling post-traumatic stress disorder. “I was…back with them,” you said quietly. “They wanted me to do something for them. Kill a man. I didn’t do it fast enough. They said I was getting sloppy, that I was avoiding finishing the job. They said—they said if I didn’t hurry up that I would have to go—go _back_.” 

Q waited for you to recover from your voice cracking on that last word before he asked his next question: 

“Did that really happen? Were you remembering something?” 

“No. I never did work for them while I was there. I just—Sometimes I’m so afraid that I’m going to wake up _there_ instead of _here_.” 

“Never. You’re never going back there. I promise.” 

Even while he said the words, Q understood it was a promise he had no real power to keep. Bond would not let you go back, though. Neither would M. MI6 was not a proper sort of family by any stretch of the imagination, but it _was_ full of people that cared about _you_ specifically. So much, in fact, that Q knew if he mentioned this situation to anyone there come morning, that you would be taken off duty faster than he could say paid leave of absence. It wouldn’t exactly be a mystery who spilled the beans, either. 

As though you could read his mind, you sighed and shifted away. “I’ll be okay. Go back to sleep.” 

Q shuffled back onto his pillow, but before he made to remove his glasses, he saw that you had left the bed. “Aren’t you coming?” 

“I don’t think I can sleep again tonight. Would it be okay if I used your computer? Maybe some Minesweeper will bore me back to dreamland.” 

“I don’t have Minesweeper,” he said, “but you’re free to use the internet if you want.” 

“You’re the best.” One last smile passed between you, then you kissed Q swiftly on the cheek and left the room. It was a testament to how much Q cared about you, he thought as he turned off the light and closed his eyes once more, that he would let you touch his laptop. No one else had had the honor before. No one else would have the honor again. 

******

The timer inside Q’s watch beeped, just once. He closed his eyes. He took a deep breath. This was it, then. The grand finale of all of Q’s hopes and all of Q’s dreams. More might come, eventually, but they would never quite measure up to what he’d always know he had at one time, however briefly. 

Now it came to this: the last, brief conversation. He did nothing to prepare himself this time, just turned around to see you standing your cage. 

“If you didn’t come to kill me, then—” 

“Listen,” Q interrupted, his voice so hushed that it sounded almost _dangerous_ in the stillness of the room. “In five more minutes, you’re going to take my briefcase, and you’re going to run.” 

Nothing Q had ever said to had ever surprised you so much before. You recovered yourself only to say: 

“What are you talking about?” 

******

More months went by. More dates, more sex, more teasing from coworkers. The anniversary of your return to work at MI6 came and went, marked by little more than a cake from Q and a more lavish gift from Bond. No one at work found out about why Q occasionally turned up with bruises or cuts on his face at least once a month, and that was just the way he liked it. Your nightmares never truly disappeared, but as they calmed somewhat, he realized that he could stomach whatever _they_ came with. What he could not was the idea of you being taken away, especially if you were taken away because of _him_. 

All the same, Q could tell his work was suffering. He worried about you while you were gone, and he worried about you while you were home. If you were not sharing the bed with him, then he was up all night thinking about your mission. If you were home and snuggled up against him, he was up all night concerned by your nightmares. There was no winning. Even he knew that. Something had to give. He just didn’t know what he was _willing_ to give up. 

Then came the evening that that was decided for him. 

You were unusually quiet as you slept that night. Q could not chalk that up to any missions you’d been; M had kept you isolated to Britain for the past month or so. Neither could he say it was the massive amount of sex. Assure him often that he was good though you did, he didn’t flatter himself to believe he was capable of truly tiring you out with his prowess in bed. But Q did not have long to consider the reasoning behind your deep sleep, because said deep sleep meant that he could, for once, sleep well with you beside him. There would be no interruptions. Except there were. 

It was not you that woke him up that night, somewhere in between two and three in the morning. Q could not say for sure what was. He thought he had heard a window click, or perhaps the sound of the front door being hastily locked. Neither made much sense. You remained beside him, breathing evenly in and out. He must have been the one with unsettling dreams that night. Determined to get back to sleep while he still could, Q rolled over. The feeling of something being wrong, however, did not leave. 

Finally he got up. If nothing else, then he could check the front door, look in a few of the closets to make sure that no one was lurking about. Q was not worried about burglars, or even of being murdered. How could he be, when a 00 agent remained asleep in his bed? The first sudden noise would get you up, and woe be unto anyone who decided Q’s laptop was worth breaking in for—which, of course, it was, but that was the very reason he was dedicated to keeping it. 

When Q arrived at the front door, however, it was locked. None of the windows had been forced, nor did any breeze going through the living room indicate that one was open. Q opened closet after closet and found no one. He truly _was_ getting paranoid. 

He decided to use the restroom before he crawled back into bed, and on his way back to the room, he headed for the kitchen for a glass of water. It took all of a millisecond to turn the lights on and to bring any hope of sleep or a happy ending to a close. 

Bond was sitting in Q’s kitchen, on the stool normally reserved for Tomás at this time of night. He did not look at Q, but continued to make sure that his gun—silencer and all—was in working order. Cold fear flooded Q’s nervous system. He wanted to speak, wanted to demand that Bond leave because Q was going to do him absolutely no off the book favors in the middle of the night. There was no time. Before Q could so much as open his mouth, Bond looked up and spotted him there. Then again, seeing as someone else had turned on the lights, Bond had probably known that Q was there the whole time. 

“Easy there, Q. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.” 

“Make _what_ harder than it has to be?” Q drew himself up to his fullest height, as though he could make himself appear to large enough that Bond would leave. He had no such luck. 

“There’s been a leak. I’m here to handle it. You’ve got nothing to do with it, but if you get in the way, I’m permitted to use force to get you out of it.” 

“What are you talking about?” Q said, fear all but forgotten in indignity. 

“You’re sure you know nothing about it? Communication to and from a location in Moscow has been recorded here nearly every night for a week.” 

“Preposterous! No one here has called anyone from Russia. If they had, I would know. Usually, [Name] and I like to _sleep_ around now, when we aren’t being interrupted by coworkers with ludicrous ideas.” 

Bond only looked at Q with something like pity. “The messages are coming from _your_ computer, Q.” 

“How would—” 

“M had me put a device on your laptop weeks ago. We’ve been monitoring it ever since.” 

In a state of great agitation, Q ran shaking fingers through his tangle of dark hair. He had _thought_ he’d noticed a slight change in position after coming back from lunch earlier that month, but then had thought only that he was going mad from lack of sleep. Normally he would have noticed a strange program added to his computer. He _should_ have noticed still. Another slip up, then. 

“And if that’s _true_ ,” he said, forcing himself to sound waspish only because that was better than betraying his nerves, “why did you say I’ve got nothing to do with it?” 

The pity in Bond’s expression increased. This was almost worse than the sinking feeling Q’s stomach. For a long while, they stood in silence, the two men on opposite ends of the room, their eyes locked onto each other. 

“She’s here to kill you, Q,” Bond said at last. 

“You’re lying!” It was too insane a suggestion for Q to consider with a speck of rationality for any length of time. He expected a rebuttal, but none came. Bond merely looked as though he were willing to give Q time to speak. “She’s been living with me since _November_. We’ve been alone hundreds of times. If she was going to kill me, then she would have already done it.” 

As Q spoke, Bond’s eyes drifted off to somewhere behind Q’s shoulder. He wondered why, until he finished his statement, and Bond said: 

“Why don’t you explain it, [Name]?” 

Q whirled around. Sure enough, you stood like a ghost in opening to the hall. You were whiter than he had ever seen your, your whole body trembling—and in your hand you held a pistol that was leveled straight at his head. 

“They said I was getting sloppy,” you said hollowly. 

A loud ringing in Q’s ears prevented him from doing more than staring at you and Bond in turns. Before. You had said that before, after a bad dream. This, too, was an awful dream; it could be nothing else, and yet Q could almost _feel_ the temperature drop with Bond’s cold reply: 

“They were right.” 

Your Glock 17 shook alarmingly. “I’m not going back to them.” 

“That’s not the plan. Drop the gun, [Name]. You aren’t going to shoot me _or_ Q here.” 

“How do you know?” 

“Because he’s right. You would have a long time ago, if you were ever going to get around to it. But that’s not the only thing they asked for, and you know it. You’ve got to come in, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.” 

Bond, Q noted, had not bothered to lift his own gun. Whether that was a relief or not was hard to say. Before Q could try to decide, a gunshot sounded in the confines of the flat; a bullet whizzed past his head and embedded itself in a cabinet door; and bare feet scrambled clumsily toward the front door. 

This had Bond standing, his own pistol aimed right at you. “I wouldn’t bother. We’ve got the place surrounded. It’s over, [Name]. You’re done.” 

An odd choking noise started up. It did not take Q’s considerable genius to realize you were crying, nor did it take you falling to your knees. Bond brushed past Q to stand next to you, but his attention went right to Q once he’d made it to the door. 

“M will want a debriefing,” he said. “I’ll tell him you can wait for tomorrow.” 

Then Bond’s hand went to your upper arm to pull you roughly to your feet. Just before you disappeared into a darkness filled with flashing police lights, you dared to look at him. Q looked right back. 

“I love you,” you whispered, just loud enough for Q and Bond to hear. 

They were words he did not return. How could he? How could anyone? And you vanished from his life as quickly as you had once appeared. 

******

Q looked at you, looked at your confusion, _really_ looked. He wanted to imprint this entire morning in his mind, above all the dark, isolated, absolute silence of your cell. Outside Q knew the storm was still raging. Rain fell in torrents; wind howled, thunder clapped. None of it would reach here. You were to be killed. You were to be buried. You were to be forgotten. 

Remembering would later save him from something like regret. 

“It’s been fifteen minutes,” he said, keeping his voice low. While he’d been careful to layer ambient noises, reasonable questions in his voice, and even some protests in your own, into what recording he would later play over the equipment here, it stood to reason that _someone_ involved might have guessed his game. If that was the case, they could not start hearing the truth _now_. Not when Q was so close to breaking everything he’d ever worked for. “Five more minutes, and time is up. Take my briefcase. Run.” 

Just as Q had suspected, you were too smart to miss his meaning. With a haste that he supposed must have pained you, you backed away. 

“No.” Your greasy hair whipped through the air with the force of your shaking head. “No, I won’t.” 

“[Name]…” 

“I’m staying here.” 

This was the _exact_ opposite of the plan. Q’s heartbeat took off, but he kept calm. He had got this far. He would get father still. 

“Dump the tools. Make sure that no one can find them. I know you’re capable of that much still. You’ve done it before. There’s a false bottom coded to your fingerprints. Get into that, and you’ll find enough money and falsified records to go where you need to go.” 

“I’m not going back to Russia!” 

This time, it was Q who neared you, Q who touched the walls of your cage. Lucky for him, they were _not_ electrified on his end. “I’m not sending you back to Russia,” he said gently. For a long minute—too long; Q was painfully aware of each passing second—you trembled. Then you dared to open a single eye and look at him. 

“You’re not?” 

“No. I’m setting you free.” 

This elicited a protest of an entirely different kind. You sucked in a breath, then turned your back. “No,” you said. “I won’t do it.” 

“You _have_ to do it!” Q hissed. 

“I don’t have to do anything.” 

“You _owe_ me.” 

Slowly, you turned toward him, uncertain. Q did not blame you. “You spent months in my company under false pretenses. I did everything you asked. I think in return, you ought to do this one thing for me.” 

“You’re going to ruin your career.” 

“I’ve done everything in my power to prevent them from finding out. Faked e-mails from M. Stole ID cards. Created false passports. Rerouted company money through twelve different Swiss banks. They're not going to find out it was me.” 

“What if they do?” 

“I don’t care!” The words came out far too loud, and echoed back to the both of you while Q caught his breath. He went on, “You don’t deserve this, [Name].” 

You smiled widely enough to show your missing false tooth—the one containing cyanide that the Russians had extracted before you’d had a chance to use it. 

“Hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but I do.” 

“ _They_ hurt you. They twisted you. They scared you. I didn’t understand at first, but I do now. I’ve had time to think. If I’m the one you were supposed to kill, then I think I should get to decide whether you live or die. I've decided that you're going to live.” 

“What if _I_ don’t want to live anymore?” 

“Then give it a chance. For me. Somewhere without the KGB. Somewhere without Russia. Somewhere with a beach and a bungalow and good place to get coffee. Try to live there for a little while. If you still don't want to live, I'm never going to find out, am I?” 

“But what about you?” 

“You know me. That sort of place wouldn’t appeal. Lots of coffee? Never touch the stuff.” 

“Q, I—” Before you could finish your sentence, all the lights went out. Right on time. For the agonizing space of a breath, you hesitated. Then the whites of your eyes flashed toward Q in the dark. “I’ll have to hurt you to make it convincing. M will probably work things out.” 

Q scoffed. “As though he’ll fire me, after all of this impressive work. I'll just be suspended until he works out he can't find another decent quartermaster before he needs one.” 

A brief rattling filled the air, though it was too pitch black in the prison to see. Q strained his ears for the sounds of footsteps, and was rewarded by hearing them as they neared. He had no time to urge you to hurry. The hinges of the cell door squeaked. Your lips were upon his, heated, rushed. Your fingers tangled his hair. Just like old times, only better, only worse. 

“I love you,” you said tearfully against his mouth. 

“I love you, too,” said Q. 

Any second now, the guards would be upon you. You realized this, too. With one last peck of his lips, you gripped the back of Q’s sweater, swung him into the air, and then threw him onto the ground hard enough to daze him. His head hit the cement. Your foot found his wrist and pressed until— _snap!_ —it broke in two. Q moaned. No apology was offered this time. He heard, rather than saw, you rush over to the table to grab the case. 

Three…two…one. 

“Forgive me, Q." 

That was good, Q thought as the sounds of nearing security guards faded from his consciousness. Perhaps he was not so pathetic after all. The weather could be wrong. You would escape. You would live. In days to come, he would imagine the first woman he had loved asleep in a hammock in some Central American country. He would imagine you free for once, and truly happy for the first time in over three years. No more spy work. No more killing. 

And he would know that in the end, he did the right thing. 

* * *


End file.
